


Twenty Years Later

by tealeaf523 (ConstantComment)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Divorce, Drama, Epistolary, HP: Epilogue Compliant, Illnesses, M/M, Romance, Travel, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 22:23:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstantComment/pseuds/tealeaf523
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Real life has managed to get the better of Harry and his friends, but even at 37 Harry still finds time to get wrapped up in fantasy and lose a little bit of his heart to another man. Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty Years Later

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eidheann (on LiveJournal)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=eidheann+%28on+LiveJournal%29).



The train left soot clinging to Harry’s hair and stuck in flecks to his jumper as Lily waved her little hand out the window of the Hogwarts Express. Lorcan and Lysander flanked her on both sides as all three called out to him, Ginny, Ron, and the Lovegood-Scamanders before disappearing into the misty morning.

Amongst the scattering parents and friends, Ron’s pat on the back and excuse to meet his wife for lunch was lost in the vague storminess of Ginny’s expression as she pulled her calendar from her purse and flipped through the pages. Luna, seeming to understand without even looking at their faces, pulled Rolf into the crowd and then they were alone.

“So, you want them for Christmas? We’ll swap for New Year’s.”

Harry looked at Ginny, in her smart trousers and blouse as she favoured one leg to compensate for the gargantuan bag on her shoulder. She’d curled her hair this morning, probably for the Harpies press meeting later that day. He’d never seen those clothes before. Harry felt a little lacking in his jeans and pea coat over the same pullover she’d given him on their fifth anniversary.

“That’s fine, Gin. Unless Molly desperately needs them at the family dinner,” Harry replied finally, gesturing half-heartedly and watching as Ginny’s expression changed from pinched to sour.

Ginny scribbled into the planner. “Perhaps the other way around, then. Shall we discuss summer at a later date? After I’m back from fall training?”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s good.”

“Have you spoken to Hermione yet?”

Harry brushed a hand over his face and looked out over the tracks.

“No,” he said. “I tried the other day but she’s… she’s impossible and knows exactly how little talent I have when it comes to expressing emotions.”

“She went back to the doctor yesterday to schedule an appointment and didn’t miss her hearing this morning. She intends to keep her seat in the Wizengamot if she can help it, whatever happens.”

“Of course,” chuckled Harry. “Our Hermione.”

Ginny smiled. “Talk to her soon.”

“I will. I will.”

There was a pause as the crowd finally thinned.

“You can’t even be bothered to wish your son goodbye?” a woman shouted further down the platform.

“I was under the impression he was _your_ son, these days. Who won custody, anyway?”

“He wanted you to be here!”

“I was held back at an Apparition point.”

“Fucking typical,” the woman spat, and Harry realised it was the younger Greengrass talking to the tall blond man—Draco Malfoy.

“How unlike Slytherins to cause a scene,” Ginny muttered, stuffing her schedule into her bag and brushing a hand over her hair. “Do I look press appropriate?”

Harry drew his gaze away from the apparently divorced couple, Malfoy now gritting his teeth as he spoke in hushed tones to his ex-wife. He was more dishevelled than Harry had seen him in years, button-down crumpled and hair askew and curling at the edges. He was stepping on his robe with a pointy-toed boot, dusted with sand. He looked like he’d been across the world just hours ago.

Harry focused on Ginny, who was giving him a look that was one-third curiosity and two-thirds uncomfortable.

“You look very nice.”

She smirked. “Do you like my clothes?”

“Ginny, just because I realised I’m—that I like men—doesn’t mean I have any more fashion sense than before.”

“Don’t you _dare_ imply that I don’t love my son!” Malfoy shouted. “I love him more than anything.”

The words were startling and familiar. Ginny looked queasy as Harry glanced at her and then looked down the platform to Malfoy and Greengrass.

“Well, he is half of me,” Malfoy said matter-of-factly to Astoria’s snarl.

The remark earned him a slap, red blooming starkly against a pale cheek.

“I was your other half,” Astoria said, and Harry raised his eyebrows. She had a flair for the dramatic, certainly. Ginny had just cut him deep and kicked him out when she was done outlining his failures as a husband.

“I’ve got to go, but we’ll talk later.”

Harry jerked his attention back to Ginny, who was already retreating into the crowd toward the brick entrance, head shaking.

Just as he was turning around, hearing Astoria’s shouts across the platform, something hit him. That is, someone hit him, jostling him aside and leaving him to pick up a tiny, ornate box that had clattered to the ground.

Harry stared at the thing for a moment before picking it up and holding it in his palm. It was about the size of a Snitch, dusty orange with deep turquoise etchings on each side, and framed with whirling, gilt designs. If he didn’t know any better he’d say it looked Arabic in origin.

He looked around to find who’d bumped him, only to see a white-blond head blink out of existence at the south end of Platform 9 ¾.

Perhaps he’d write Malfoy a letter.

Harry pocketed the box and took a deep breath. At least it would be something to think about other than his marital troubles. Ex-marital, that is.

\--

_Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

No.

_Mr. Malfoy,_

No.

_Mr. Draco Malfoy?_

Shit.

Harry waved off a departmental memo as it poked him in the ear, quill hovering over the short bit of Ministry-provided parchment as he failed to pen the simplest letter. What was he supposed to say to someone he hadn’t spoken to since saving him from Fiendfyre when they were seventeen?

And at thirty-seven, apparently he couldn’t write a simple letter – which had nothing to do with their past, and didn’t need to, either – to tell the man that he’d dropped something on Platform 9 ¾. It was that simple. But as soon as he put the nub of the quill to paper, writing to Malfoy – even addressing him – seemed like the most complex of puzzles.

_Malfoy,_ Harry began.

That was a reasonably good start.

The departmental memo knocked him in the temple this time, and it was then that Harry realised it was a message specifically for him.

Harry tossed his quill down and snatched the fluttering paper from the air.

_H. Potter:_

_Next assignment: Frankfurt, Germany  
Mission: Undisclosed.  
Contacts: Dietrich, D. and Julienne, K.  
Date of Departure: 12.9.2017  
Date of Return: 15.9.2017  
Briefing: 11.9.2017 14:41_

The briefing was in an hour and sixteen minutes. All the time in the world, really, to prepare. They always put him on the mystery missions because of his track record of dealing with spontaneous danger. Because he was Harry Potter. Well, at least he’d be on assignment with Kyla Julienne. She was easy-going but focused.

Harry sighed and penned a quick note to Julienne, asking to meet over coffee to talk about their styles of teamwork and stealth techniques. Hopefully she knew D. Dietrich, so they could get a feel for their German collaborator.

After he sent the note zooming out over the cubicles, he was left to stare at the mountain of paperwork from his last assignment in Wales, juxtaposed against the bluish Ministry stationary, at the top of which was written, _Malfoy,_ in his slanted handwriting.

Harry pulled the letter toward him and began again.

_This is out of the blue, but I think you dropped something on Platform 9 ¾ on Monday. It’s a box of some sort, but looks expensive, so I was sure you wouldn’t want to part with it. I’m uncomfortable sending it with an owl, so if you’d like to meet sometime so I can give it back, let me know._

_Hope things are going well for you,  
Harry Potter_

He rewrote it several times over, so it would neither state the obvious, nor hint at Malfoy’s obscene wealth, nor hope that things were going well for him. Best to avoid all pleasantries so Malfoy would have nothing to sneer at, even if Harry did hope that things were going better for Malfoy than they had seemed to be going on Monday.

Harry knew how difficult life could be in the aftermath of divorce. Although things had calmed down lately, his and Ginny’s interactions had been just as fiery after the finalisation as he’d thought they’d been when they started dating in sixth year.

After meeting Sal, though, Harry knew what fiery really was.

Harry shook himself and folded the letter into an envelope, sealing it with a spell. He’d have to go to the owlery to send off a non-Ministry message, which was a pain, but would give him something else to think about.

He ran into Anthony Goldstein in the elevator going to Level Eight—literally ran into him, as Goldstein’s vision was obscured by a tower of Wizengamot records he was delivering from Level Two to the International Magical Office of Law and couldn’t see where he was going. The former Ravenclaw was working in International Magical Cooperation now, and was one of the few men in the Ministry who were out – at least, of the men that Harry knew. He’d tried to reach out to Harry in the midst of the nasty press coverage after the divorce, but Harry had declined his offer to go to that group and talk about his feelings. Everyone already knew enough about his life.

The Atrium was buzzing as usual, Floos burning as witches and wizards entered and exited the Ministry on official business. Memos zoomed in circles above the infamous fountain, gold and ostentatious, that held likenesses of himself, Dumbledore and Kingsley Shacklebolt, first Minister for Magic after the Second Voldemort War. The statues stood on pedestals with their water-spouting wands raised high. It was hideous. Ron always had a good laugh when he was visiting the Ludicrous Patents Office on Level Seven for another WWW product.

Harry was just passing the abomination when he heard his name.

Hermione was walking with two other Wizengamot officials, their robes slung over their arms as their boots clicked on the black marble. She was looking his way, and raised her eyebrows as if to say, “Yes, I did call your name, you dolt,” as the others chattered away to her side.

She excused herself and strode over to him, glancing up at his gilded likeness before teasing, “Hello, Golden Boy.”

Harry tugged on a curl that had weaselled its way out of her bun. She was wearing a skirt and jacket in aubergine, with a small, delicate pendant around her neck. It looked like it had seen better days, but was charming in its own aged way, the moonstone on the end cracked in two, like a bird’s egg. She looked a bit frazzled, her jacket undone and her hair a frizz, which was usual, but she also looked sad, which was not so usual. “How are you?” he asked.

Her mouth tugged downward. “I’m okay. I bought a garden gnome during lunch break—not the real kind, goodness, one of those stupid lawn ornaments. Had to keep myself happy somehow. I—got my test results back this morning.” A pause. “I have… this rare condition. I hadn’t even heard of it—“

Harry’s heart sank.

“Because I never suspected that something would happen, like this. I didn’t read—never mind.” She took a breath. “It’s a wizard’s cancer, or something like it. It doesn’t make sense medically, so I’m having an even harder time coming to terms—“

“Hermione,” said Harry. He grabbed her hand, receiving a tight squeeze in return. “You found out a few hours ago.”

“Doctor Yeckes warned me about it last Thursday, She said all the symptoms pointed to it,” she returned, as if having a couple days’ notice would mean the illness had less of an impact.

“Hermione,” Harry said, again.

“Give me a hug, Golden Boy. I know you’ll just ask me about Rose and Hugo and the family, and you already know that they know. Ron’s fine, he is. He’s determined to kick this illness ‘in the arse,’ even though I’ve explained it’s not that simple.”

Harry pulled her in and buried his nose in her hair. He couldn’t bring himself to say he was sorry. She was smart—she’d know that already.

“We were going to go on a tour of Europe this year when Wizengamot session closed,” she mumbled, bringing her arms up around his waist.

Harry pulled back and looked her in the eye. “Can we have lunch when I get back from Frankfurt?”

“God, yes. And Harry, how are you? Can’t believe I didn’t ask you—“

“I’m having an interesting week. I’ll tell you when I get back, but I have to owl this letter…”

“Of course!” Hermione smiled and clicked her leather-soled shoes on the floor.

“Put the gnome in your garden so you can see it when you come home every day,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek before hurrying to the owlery. With fifteen minutes to spare, he found a nice, professional-looking barn owl and gave her the letter.

And watched her sit there.

“Shoo,” Harry growled. “Can’t you see I’m in a hurry?”

The owl turned around, and Harry started backing away, before she turned toward him again and held out her leg, as if she was delivering a message.

Harry tried only four more times before snatching the letter from her talons and flipping the letter nervously in his fingers as he searched for a less… insane animal.

Silvery blue lettering reflected back at him from the envelope; he realised now it was very different from the one he’d sent. It was a fine bit of stationary, a stock he recognised from evidence in a recent case, and across the front was written, ‘H. Potter,’ in elegant, metallic script.

Swearing, Harry opened his mail to find big, bold letters emblazoned across the top of the page:

**_OUT OF OFFICE REPLY_ **

_Dear H. Potter,_

_Mister Malfoy is currently in the Czech Republic pursuing a job for a client in Prague. He will be out of the office from 7 September to 12 September, and will attend to your inquiry post-haste._

_Thank you for contacting Discreet Cursebreakers._

_Idina Vernus  
Operations Assistant  
Discreet Cursebreakers  
324 Coniferous Crescent  
Juniper Hollow, Somerset_

_‘Discretion is the heart of business.’_

Harry barked out a laugh, startling an old witch who was hobbling up the stairs.

And then he checked the time.

\--

_Malfoy,_

_If you are still on the continent for the next couple days, I am in Germany and can take your box with me for a hand-off. I will be off-duty by the 15th, if not sooner. If this suits you and you can find a place to meet, I will be there._

_Best,  
Harry Potter_

Harry got that damned **_OUT OF OFFICE REPLY_** as soon as he’d handed the short note to his tawny owl, Driscoll. So, he gave up and unpacked what he wouldn’t miss if he had to leave unexpectedly from his little hotel room in Frankfurt, a place with orange walls and scratchy bed sheets, but little care for who stayed there and a track record of discretion.

“Discretion is the heart of business,” Harry muttered crossly as he tossed his toothbrush into the little cup next to the sink, eyeing the reflection of the ornate box tucked between a pair of socks and his spare trainers. He took a deep breath and tilted his head back. The bathroom walls were an even more questionable colour than the room, with a water damaged, floral trim at the top.

He resigned himself to a week of tailing a group of black market vendors. The vendors had been capturing and selling Bavarian erklings, XXXX classified beasts, to clients in Britain, Merlin knew why. The Aurors had decided to cut the buyers off at the supply instead of dealing with each perpetrator individually. The most difficult part of the job would be the vendors’ security detail – a group of half-Giants who were less than half as well-tempered as Madame Maxime. Although, Kyla Julienne was a breath of fresh air, young and full of endless laughter. At least there was that.

Harry met with Kyla in the lobby, exchanging information on the day’s objectives and speculation about Dietrich Dietrich’s role in their mission. All they had was a picture of the man with the double name – a characteristic Kyla found endlessly funny – and his title as Elfen-Spezialist at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures’s Beast Division in Berlin. He was a plain-looking man, with deep brown hair and an uneven haircut, but he wore a tie in his official Ministry photo that made even Harry cringe.

He was sure to be an interesting fellow, and had asked them to meet in Muggle Frankfurt on a pedestrian promenade near Frankfurter Hauptbahnhof.

Just before they stepped out into the grey morning, only slightly prepared for their day (as these things went), the concierge called out to Harry, gesturing for him to come to the desk.

“A letter arrived for you, sir.”

It was a Muggle letter, by the looks of it, stamps and all. It was addressed to Herr Potter, in this arrogant scrawl that Harry immediately recognised, even if he couldn’t recall reading a word of Malfoy’s handwriting in his life.

_Potter,_

_From the sound of it, you are desperate to give me back what’s mine. I suppose I should thank you for that. I have been rather forgetful, lately. Luckily Saviour Potter is around to pick up after my messes._

_But in all seriousness, I am thankful that you found the box. It is very important to me. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to make it to Munich, where my next client is based, until the 16th. If its not too much trouble would you be willing to drop the box at the Hotel Cortiina? See return address. They’ll know you’re coming._

_Draco Malfoy_

How the hell was Malfoy getting Muggle letters to him within thirty minutes of his original correspondence?

“Who’s it from?”

Harry looked up at Kyla. “Draco Malfoy,” he said.

“Is that your secret boyfriend?”

Harry choked on his own spit as Kyla thanked the concierge in muddled German and laughed her way to the door.

Harry paused, slapping the letter against the wall and writing on the back:

_Saviour Potter here._

_Ok to go to Munich. Will be there from 15:00-18:00 unless there are unexpected developments._

He knew it worked when he received an almost instantaneous reply.

_Eternal thanks. But, honestly – is there something I can send you in return? Money? Women? Oh, right._

Harry gritted his teeth and wrote:

_Ha. Ha. Fuck you._

Malfoy thought he was so clever.

_Merlin, you could at least take me to dinner first._

Harry was muttering to himself, trying to think of a clever retort, so Kyla just grabbed hold of his arm and led him out into the street.

“Danke schön!” Harry yelled into the hotel’s open doorway just before Kyla pulled him into the nearest alley. They disappeared with a quiet ‘POP.’

Coffee was first on the agenda, since they had fifteen minutes before Dietrich’s estimated arrival, so they loitered in an U-Bahn entrance to people watch while they still had time.

“When did you start with the upper division, then?” Harry asked. “You’re so young.” She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.

Kyla was consumed by her enthusiasm for her latte, but she answered cheerily as she set the cup down. “In June, actually. Got my month-long stealth mission two weeks from now. I received the assignment right after our meeting yesterday, so I’m a bit more jittery than usual.”

Harry looked Kyla over, who looked the picture of calm in her military green trousers and black tee under a light leather jacket. She was leaning back on her palms as they sat on the steps, and the only thing one could categorise as ‘jittery’ was the jiggle of her leg, crossed over the other.

Harry looked into the depths of his coffee and smirked.

“Got any advice?” she asked.

“Just don’t go falling in love with your partner,” Harry advised, glancing sideways at Kyla, who flipped her blonde hair over her shoulder and gaped at him.

“That’s how it happened?” she asked. “Did you cheat on your wife like the papers said?”

“No, but I’m no longer married, so you can guess what else is true.”

“Fuck me.”

Harry snickered into his coffee and watched shoppers on the pedestrian street. It was interesting that Dietrich had asked them to meet in Muggle Frankfurt. Maybe he had a lead and they’d be off the case sooner, so he could pop over to Munich.

“Was it nasty?”

It took him a second to remember what they were talking about.

“I figured out I like men. Dealing with a bruised pride on top of a broken family didn’t suit Ginny very much. Even though it was my fault for not knowing myself enough.”

“Didn’t you get together before graduating from Hogwarts?”

“Yes, but…”

“You were sixteen and dealing with a megalomaniac on the regular – and not getting paid for it,” she added. “I’m pretty sure there’s no fault in not having the time or the confidence to figure yourself out sexually. It’s not like you had a normal adolescent development.”

“Oh, cheers.”

“Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll apologise.”

“You are so sassy,” Harry said, shaking his head at his partner.

“Have to keep myself happy somehow.”

“It’s funny. A friend of mine said that just the other day.”

“Are they as sassy as I am?”

“More of a smart-ass. It’s Hermione; you know, the—”

“Youngest member of the Wizengamot. Hello, feminist, here.” Kyla waved at him. “Granger-Weasley is conquering the bureaucratic world and making our government a better one.”

“She is.”

“I heard she was ill.” Kyla’s tone was softer, this time.

Harry said nothing for a while. “Hey, this might be a little inconvenient, but… Hermione and Ron were going to go on a tour of Europe but her treatments won’t let her leave the country. I wanted to do something special for her to, you know, cheer her up. Thought of taking something around, like a picture of them, and taking pictures of it in these famous places all over and sending them back home anonymously… But she’ll know it’s me if I just take a camera with me on my missions.”

Kyla nodded, a smile widening on her face. “I’ll do it, yeah. My month-long is mainly about disguises and concealment, my lowest scores on the exam.”

“Mine was teamwork. My partner and I were together 24/7.”

“Ha. Well, at least it means I won’t be too busy to take photos.”

“Thank you, Kyla. Really.”

“You’re a quirky fellow, aren’t you?”

Harry shrugged, but couldn’t keep the smile off his face, already thinking up an item to give to Kyla for Mission Cheer Hermione Up.

“We should be friends,” she added.

Harry tapped his coffee against hers.

And just then Dietrich sprinted out of an alleyway down the block, shouting, “RENNEN!” at them as a half-Giant followed in hot pursuit.

Harry muttered, “I think that means—“

“Run!” Kyla finished.

A moment later, the only trace of their presence was the coffee dripping into the gutter.

\--

After a tiring but successful week in Frankfurt, Munich was refreshing and beautiful, as Harry discovered walking through the Englischer Garten where the leaves had turned red and the air was cool and fresh.

He would only be here for a couple hours, but it seemed even less of a hardship than it had several days ago. He stopped and had warm milchreis at a Muggle establishment before finding a secluded area and Apparating into central Munich. The buildings were bright and colourful and pointy, and Harry decided he liked the place even if it wasn’t as bustling or as gritty as London was.

All the while he held the little box in his pocket, thumb rubbing over the contours and edges of the pretty little thing, which made him wonder all the more what the box could mean to such a stuck-up, lofty prat of a man.

There was another letter waiting for him at the hotel Malfoy had mentioned, and Harry passed the box to the short brunette behind the front desk as he opened the envelope.

_Saviour Potter,_

_Again, thank you for returning the box. I was surprisingly sorry to miss you. After all, it would be fun to rile you up in person, if only for old time’s sake. That is, if we’re past all the nonsense that happened during the war. I’ll make sure to let you take me out to dinner, as it’s clear you have nefarious designs on me._

_Anyway, do make sure to get some Butterbrezn while you’re still in the city, and expect a gift to be waiting for you in your office when you return to work._

_Draco Malfoy_

Harry garbled out a request for a pen and paper in German, to which the concierge replied in perfect English, handing him the items promptly.

_You are a snarky son of a bitch, but I shouldn’t be surprised. Have your precious box. Glad to be of service._

_Saviour Potter_

_PS – Sexual favours are preferable, but I’ll take the gift and we’ll call it even._

Blushing at his forwardness, Harry left the hotel and left Munich, feeling happier than he’d expected to be, striking up a new repartee with Malfoy – one that didn’t involve death threats or warnings that Harry should wait until Malfoy’s father “heard about this.”

He was still blushing when he met Ron for a pint at The Builder’s Arms, a Magic-friendly pub in Kensington, with a room that only wizards could reach on the second floor.

“What, drunk already?” was Ron’s greeting.

“No,” Harry mumbled, and ordered a stout.

“She bought a gnome you know. And not a real one. A Muggle thing. Hideous,” Ron said some time later, dabbing his finger in the bowl of now eaten chips and catching the vinegary salt. “She put it in the front garden. Fuck knows why.”

“Ron, this is serious. She’s got a lot on her plate.”

“Harry. I know that. I live with the woman.”

Harry sighed and pushed his glass away.

“Her cells are just… wasting away, Harry. It was only a month ago when I found her passed out on the kitchen floor that we went in to get her checked out. Turns out she’s had the disease for months. They’re saying she’s the first Muggleborn to ever get it. It’s hereditary normally, so of course that means Hermione’s going to obsess over it like it’s a Rubik’s Cube.”

“How the hell d’you know what a Rubik’s Cube is?”

Ron shrugged, making Harry guffaw when he muttered something about Muggle Liaisons during training, when Ron had been determined to become an Auror. He preferred Wheezes, now, helping run the place while George invented and schemed.

“How was Germany?”

“Munich was great, actually.”

Ron leaned back and folded his arms. “Oh. Thought you were in Frankfurt.”

“I was. I just went to Munich for the afternoon before meeting you here.”

“Any particular reason? Wanted to eat a Bavarian pretzel?”

Harry swallowed. “Dropped something off there. Ministry business.”

He knew Ron knew he was lying, but Ron let it go anyway and asked him if he was going to the first scrimmage for the Harpies on Thursday.

“Unlikely,” said Harry. “I’ll probably be on the Continent anyway. They’re shipping me off on a weekly basis, now.”

“Stop solving so many national cases, Harry, and you’ll get to stay home more often.”

Ron smiled when Harry added, “’Please, Mister Potter, we’d really rather you tried to be less efficient. Stop doing what we tell you!’” Harry rolled his eyes and signalled the barman for another pint. “We all know collaborations involve less paperwork for the main office.”

Ron went on a rant about bureaucracy, and Harry found his mind drifting to Malfoy being discreet over in Prague with his fancy boxes and flirtatious snobbery.

“Mate, I’m gonna get going. You’re not listening to me anymore and I’m feeling like I might see if I can make love to my wife, so…”

Harry snapped out of it, relaying what Ron had said before making a face and Summoning his cloak for him.

“Night, lover boy,” Harry called out as Ron dashed Floo powder into the fireplace at the end of the room.

There was a letter waiting for him when he got home, and he felt horrible for the disappointment he felt when he found it was from Lily, settling into her first week at school.

_Hi Daddy,_

_Hogwarts is so cool, but I miss you a lot. I was sorted into Gryffindor, but I know James already told you because he’s a tattler. Lorcan and Lysander were put into Ravenclaw like Luna and Rolf so I’ve made friends with Viola Crenshaw. She’s from St. Ives and she’s related to Ernest Pilliwickle. I don’t know who that is, but she says he’s a Hit Wizard. Potions is my favourite subject so far, and Professor Slughorn says I’ve got your talent, so he wants me to be in his special club!_

_Everything’s so exciting! I love you! I hope that your work is fun._

_Your Lily-Lu_

Harry clutched the note in his hands and vowed to send her a care package when the week was out.

Sleep came quickly after.

\--

_I don’t know if you’re spying on me, or what, but MacFusty’s Hebridean Black is my favourite Firewhiskey label._

_HP_

\--

_You’re right. I am spying on you. I follow you around and gather information on your alcoholic predispositions while you’re asleep at night._

_Or, maybe, I can tell what you like. You did enough of following me around in your day, do you think I don’t know you as well?_

_Draco Malfoy_

\--

_I remain steadfast in the assumption that you are taking notes on my every move._

_The Butterbrezn was really good, by the way. I liked Munich quite a bit, even though I was only there for a few hours. Did your mission in Munich go well?_

_HP_

\--

_You were only in Munich for a few hours? I was under the impression you were stationed there for a case. Who’s following who, now?_

_Mission. Ha. Dealt with some cursed family cauldron of a local potion-making business. Easy, but messy work. And you? How was your ‘mission,’ wherever the hell you were?_

_Draco Malfoy_

\--

_I was in Frankfurt, actually. But it wasn’t too much trouble to Apparate to Munich. Apparition laws are getting more lenient, there._

_Not a terribly high profile case. We caught the bastards, that’s all. Fairly relaxed once we got past the half-Giants and the colony of erklings in their basement._

_HP_

\--

_So glad you could stoop to the level of the commoners, just this once, and catch some Elfin creatures like the rest._

_In Brussels tomorrow. Think you can manage a few days without me?_

_Draco Malfoy_

\--

_I think I can bloody well manage without you._

_Prat._

_Have fun in Belgium._

_HP_

\--

**_OUT OF OFFICE REPLY_ **

_Dear H. Potter,_

_Mister Malfoy is currently in Belgium pursuing a job for a client in Brussels. He will be out of the office from 1 October to 5 October, and will attend to your inquiry post-haste._

_Thank you for contacting Discreet Cursebreakers._

_Idina Vernus  
Operations Assistant  
Discreet Cursebreakers  
324 Coniferous Crescent  
Juniper Hollow, Somerset_

_‘Discretion is the heart of business.’_

\--

A week later, the 100 Galleon bottle of Firewhiskey was still sitting on his desk with an emerald green bow around its neck. The note from Ron was new, though, (“Another patent this morning, Chosen One. In other news, please destroy that gnome quietly in the night. It stares at me when I leave each morning and the cat is getting tetchy. Save me!”), and the assignment for Milan started the following week. He would be solo this time, trailing a criminal wanted in Wales and collaborating with the local authorities.

Harry picked the Firewhiskey up again, watching the amber liquid shift through the glass. It would have been his favourite label if he could afford it on a regular basis. He was somewhat floored by Malfoy’s consideration. And floored by the fact that he felt flattered, too.

Harry traced the wax seal on the bottle while he wondered what the fuck his stomach thought it was doing when he was really only talking with Malfoy through owl (getting an **_OUT OF OFFICE REPLY_** every other day, but still). His middle felt like it was hatching a whole butterfly colony like he was—

Geoff Severyn made a comment about boozing at nine AM – and at work – and Harry told him to jog on before storing the whiskey with the aim to bring it home soon, and finding Kyla and filling out paperwork in her cramped little cubicle over by the enchanted window of the pebbly beach. She would be leaving the following day, so he wanted to keep her company and plan Operation Cheer Hermione Up. They were thus occupied until the early afternoon.

Harry went to Diagon Alley right after work to withdraw money and check his balances, and enjoyed the fleeting rush of the journey into the bowels of the vaults to fetch his Galleons, before coming back to the surface and narrowly avoiding a confrontation with a Goblin who’d been at work the day he, Hermione and Ron had broken out of the bank on the back of a dragon.

In the atrium he retrieved his key, but not before he noticed a tall, blond man at one of the desks, making a commotion and emptying his pockets onto the counter with agitated flourishes.

It was Malfoy, Harry saw, as he emptied out a pocket of his inner robe and slammed a bit of lint and a small, white and blue box on top of the pile of other items and crumpled papers that was growing in front of a sinisterly amused Goblin’s eyes.

“You know who I am,” growled Malfoy.

“Your certificate, please,” the Goblin simply said.

Having apparently searched to no avail, Malfoy starting grabbing things willy-nilly and shoving them back into his robes.

“I was fucking employed here six years ago as a Curse-Breaker, and you demand a certificate? Your trustees gave the damn thing to me!”

“Then where is it, Mister Malfoy? We cannot allow you access to another person’s vault without it.”

“I’ve never needed it before, Yorbluk.”

Harry watched, frozen to the spot with surprise as Malfoy argued fruitlessly with the Goblin, whose ears were hairier than his head.

“Trussed up house-elf,” Malfoy muttered with finality, and stormed from the lobby, dragon-hide boots clacking on the black and white marble, disturbing the eerie quiet.

Harry looked over at Yorbluk, who was eyeing the little box with little interest.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, even though the git was out the door already. He snatched the box from Yorbluk’s desk and followed after the man, who was clearly in a right snit by the swiftness of his gate. “Malfoy!” Harry called, louder, but the man Disapparated just past Eeylop’s Owl Emporium.

“Deja-vu,” Harry muttered, stuffing the little box in his pocket and fighting off the disappointment of… of what exactly? “Malfoy, you forgetful little shit.”

\--

_Saw you at Gringotts today. Also saw the box you left on the front counter, which the goblins thankfully assessed as worthless and therefore didn’t steal. If you didn’t have such a flair for the dramatic, you might remember not to leave valuable things behind._

_What would you have me do with this one? It’s quite pretty, although I’ve no clue what it does and certainly don’t think I need it for myself._

_Shall we do a hand-off over a curry?_

_HP_

\--

That night, after several hours lying awake regretting the last line of that letter, Harry dreamt that he was still on his month-long, trailing a suspect of serial murders involving trapping the victims in ornate little boxes. Sal was smiling the whole time, mocking and teasing him until he was tripping over the boxes left in the suspect’s wake. There were kisses exchanged, like in his other dreams, except Sal was taller, pointier, meaner. Not Italian and gregarious but harsh and cruel and squeezing the life out of him.

Harry woke up feeling unsteady, but was pleased to see Driscoll sitting in his windowsill, holding a letter.

_I can’t make it to a curry,_ Malfoy began, _as disappointed as I certainly am to miss the detestable stuff. I’m stationed in Turin right now, and will be here for two weeks. Tough client. Tough work. Don’t send the box in the mail. I can wait until I get back to London, if you’re amenable._

Resolute in his decision to not give a damn about Malfoy and his mixed-messages, Harry bought a giant vase of Crooning Chrysanthemums and put them on Ron and Hermione’s doorstep after he snatched the gnome, rosy-cheeked and waving, from their garden and went to work.

Kyla was in stitches when he handed the garden ornament to her at the Ministry Apparition point.

“This’ll be a laugh when I’m in Versailles,” she said as she stuffed it in her bag. “You sure she won’t just be jealous that her gnome’s travelling the world and she isn’t?”

“Make her smile, yeah?”

Kyla looked over at her partner, a man with a prominent nose and a pair of yellow trousers, who was scribbling in a notebook not ten feet away. “He’s going to think I’m a lunatic,” she said with a grin.

“Cheers, Kyla. You’re a bloody gem.”

\--

Milan was close to Turin. Relatively speaking.

_I’m on assignment in Italy right now,_ Harry wrote a week later.

The **_OUT OF OFFICE REPLY_** was instantaneous, but quickly followed by a letter that afternoon while Harry was taking a moment to look over his notes in the flat overlooking Milan’s Wizarding district.

_Well, well, well. It’s clear who’s the stalker in this relationship, Saviour Potter. Have you got as close as Piemonte, or are you breathing down my neck as I write this?_

_You can give me that blasted box if you’re available tomorrow at two. There’s a decent pizzeria on Piazza Carlo Alberto. You can buy me a white pizza and grumble while I make snide remarks about the loud, heathen children in the vicinity. That is, when I’m not making snide remarks about you._

_Draco Malfoy_

Harry was getting a headache. It was impossible to tell Malfoy’s intentions on paper, and therefore impossible to sort out the knots in his stomach, and whether they were warranted or just overreactions. In any case, he was well and truly fucked, and the whole thing was unprofessional, so Harry penned a response in the affirmative, keeping it cool, before gathering himself and walking out into the late afternoon sun. He was headed for the place of his suspect’s latest sighting, and planned to trace the man’s steps from there.

It looked like rain when Harry Apparated to Turin the next day, having nearly Apparated on top of a gypsy and got lost four times before arriving at what he assumed was his destination, in the Piazza Malfoy had mentioned.

He ate alone after waiting a half-hour.

He felt like he’d just ridden a rollercoaster – even if he’d never set foot on one in his life – when the waiter delivered a note with just a few words:

_Forgive me. Rain check?_

_Draco_

It did rain, as soon as Harry was finished with his meal, parts breathless and crushed and doomed all at once.

He was falling for Malfoy. For Malfoy. And he’d only been talking to him for a month! And not even talking – just exchanging ambiguous flirtations through the post while he followed the man all over Europe. You couldn’t trust the written word as much as you could trust those words coming from someone’s lips, in Harry’s opinion, which made it all the worse.

He was grumbling to himself on the way to the nearest Apparition point, huddled up in his jacket, when someone walked into his path. Harry looked up, intending to use what little Italian he knew to tell the person to bugger off, and his heart sank.

“Sal,” Harry said.

Sal was equally astonished, from the look on his open face, as he stood under an umbrella in his smart, tailored suit, a grey scarf wrapped artfully around his neck. He was wearing red shoes and his hair was longer, falling in honey brown waves around his ears, but otherwise he looked exactly the same. “Harry, what are you doing here?”

Harry stared at him for a moment before blurting, “Ministry business.”

“Ah, of course. Well, how are you?” Sal was reaching out to grasp Harry’s arm—the touchy bastard—but Harry reached up to scratch the back of his head. Sal’s hand fell as he absently blathered on about his recent relocation to Turin from Vienna.

“I’m fine, just—fine,” said Harry. “What are you doing here?”

Sal chuckled. “I just told you, I moved here three months ago. Just after our assignment. We wanted to be closer to our families, now that Fabiola is pregnant.”

“Oh. Congratulations.” Harry looked everywhere but at Sal. “Well, I’ve got to—”

“Is there… too much Ministry business to forgo a cappuccino?”

Harry blinked.

“I’d like to hear how you are doing.”

“I—I can’t, actually. I have to meet with my partner. It was nice seeing you, though!” Harry backed away and started walking, splashing through the puddles as he retraced his steps; anything to get away.

“Harry? Oh, well, yes. Nice to see you! See you around, maybe?”

Harry hid in a church for the next three hours, heart battering in its cage and hurting so much Harry felt like it might burst.

“C’mon you fucking pansy,” he muttered wetly into his shirtsleeves as he tried to breathe calmly. His voice echoed unnaturally in the cavernous room. He looked up, and saw the beautiful dome above, poorly lit but opulent. Harry kicked the pew in front of him.

He wrote Malfoy that evening upon his return to Milan.

_I’m doing you a fucking favour, running all over Europe to deliver these stupid trinkets of yours. I feel like an idiot when I make all this effort to give you these things you treasure so fucking much but honestly, don’t bother if you don’t care that much to meet with me. I’ll leave the damned box at your office when I get back to London and I’ll stop bothering you._

\--

_Potter,_

_I’m in Prague right now, working with a client who has a chamber of secrets. I kid you not._

_I hope Italy was not a complete waste of your time, and you ‘caught the bastard’ in the end, like you always do. Again, my apologies for missing lunch. Was the pizza passable, at least?_

_Thank you for keeping the box safe._

_Draco Malfoy_

The poor animal that had delivered Malfoy’s note was huffing and puffing as she leaned her rumpled feathers on the windowsill. Attached to the note was a neatly wrapped box, no bow, which held a custom-made wand holster. Not too expensive, Harry knew, but the chestnut coloured leather was beaten in with his initials H.J.P. and a patterned detail on the buckle.

“I don’t understand,” said Harry to the eagle owl.

He turned the box over, reading the scrawl under the leather maker’s logo, “To keep safe what is precious to you – keeping others safe.”

\--

“What happened to the gnome?” Harry asked Hermione as they sat down to dinner a few nights later. Ron had roasted chicken, potatoes and vegetables, and set the delicious meal down in the centre of the table before bussing his wife on the cheek. “Ron said you put it in the front garden.”

Hermione paused midway through sitting down. She’d spent the day at home, the day after her treatment, so she wore flannel pyjama bottoms and a tee-shirt, a delicate silver chain peeking out of her collar and earrings that looked like roses. Ron was right when he said they’d kick the illness in the arse. She looked spitefully beautiful.

“So it’s not you, then?”

“Uh,” Harry began. “I’m not a gnome, Hermione—”

Hermione rolled her eyes and stood up, walking slowly over to the mantelpiece, where his bouquet of Crooning Chrysanthemums were swaying and singing softly, ‘I got sunshine on a cloudy day…’

There was a stack of photos in her hands when she returned, and Ron watched the two of them curiously as she pushed the photos toward Harry.

There was a picture of the smiling gnome in front of Versailles, waving his little hand. Above him was written, ‘Wish you were here!’

He flipped through all eight of them: Paris in front of the Sacré-Coeur, Amsterdam in front of a windmill, another in the Alps… One said, “Zurich is overrated and overpriced.” And another said, “Missing you!” as the gnome sat atop a whitewashed wall in Greece. Others were quotes from famous poets and funny anecdotes about what Kyla had seen in the cities she’d visited.

“A travelling gnome,” Harry said finally, looking blankly at Hermione. Ron ate silently with raised eyebrows. Hermione was staring blankly right back, a group of peas balanced on her fork.

“It’s not you,” she said.

“I haven’t been to any of these places. Except Zurich. I agree it is overrated. Went there three years ago on a case.”

“Honestly, who is doing this?” Hermione turned to Ron. “Even if the gnome were enchanted, it doesn’t have legs!”

Ron snorted and Harry shrugged. “I think it’s pretty funny,” said Harry.

Ron nodded, spearing a potato and popping it into his mouth. “Hermione does, too.”

Hermione smiled despite herself, chewing her peas politely, unlike her husband who’d managed to get potato on his eyebrow.

Harry carved off a leg of chicken and settled into his meal, feeling more contented and grounded here with his friends than he’d been feeling for the last few months.

“I see you got a wand holster,” Ron said after a while, pointing with his fork, and Harry felt less and less contented as the moment dragged on.

“Yeah, wanted to get myself something special,” Harry lied. “Not been feeling my best lately.”

“Me, too,” Hermione muttered, “but my first try at retail therapy ran away to the Continent!”

Ron squeezed her knee under the table as Harry laughed quietly into his glass of water. “You’ll just have to try again, then, yeah?”

\--

_Potter,_

_I hope you liked your present. If you are anywhere in Spain this week, I can meet you and retrieve my box. If not, I’ll be back in England next Monday for a two-week vacation. Say yes so I can thank you in person._

_Best,  
Draco Malfoy_

Harry stared dumbly back and forth between his next week’s assignment with Isabella Nero in Barcelona, and Malfoy’s letter, wondering why the Fates insisted on torturing him this way.

He may be Harry Potter, but he was not built to withstand this amount of inner turmoil.

He knocked his head against the desk until the desk knocked him in the head, getting annoyed.

He felt slightly better when he got an owl from Kyla, who told him in necessarily vague terms about her travels, and asked him whether the gnome photos, sent whenever she reached a new city, were working. He penned a letter thanking her profusely, and went about the rest of his day with a bit more of a spring in his step.

At least he was doing something right.

He wrote to Malfoy that afternoon, letting him know rather begrudgingly that he had an assignment down in Barcelona, and wasn’t that oh-so-convenient? He grumbled about dates and times and when he’d be off duty, and that Malfoy better not leave another fucking box for him to pick up because he’d just throw it in the sea if he found another one. After he felt he had left any flirtation out of his letter, he went to the owlery and sent the damn thing.

This time, he didn’t get an **_OUT OF OFFICE REPLY_**.

Life was looking up already.

The atrium was quiet, so it was easy to notice an owl zooming down from the rafters as Harry walked back toward the lifts. He needed to do more paperwork, joy, and that owl was about to plough him over—

“Oof!” said Harry, batting at flapping wings and flying feathers as the bird practically wrestled with his chest. “Hey, hey, hey!” Harry yelped, giving the bird his arm to perch on, but when he grabbed the letter attached, she just jumped back toward his chest. There were people chuckling around him as the neurotic owl flittered about, but he ignored them and managed to get the note open, pulling his arm to his chest so she calmed down and could sit without clawing his belly off.

_Potter,_

_I do hope you like my idiot owl, Bob. She’s my personal owl, and therefore doesn’t get much use other than trips to Hogwarts and back, thankfully. I figured she would either charm you or annoy the hell out of you – either way, your last letter reeked of a hang-over and a bad night’s sleep and a pinched nerve all at once, so Bob is clearly the remedy to put your head back on straight._

_If you don’t want to meet in Spain, don’t make the effort. I can wait until we both get back to the U.K. so it doesn’t inconvenience you greatly. I apologise if that was the impression you got._

_Now, quit being a complete ass about it._

_Draco Malfoy_

Harry wrote another letter in his office, still with Bob in his arms, who had spent most of the time they’d been acquainted with her face pressed to his shirt buttons like a seer in front of a crystal ball. He’d received at least twelve comments about his new admirer by the time he’d reached his cubicle.

_No, Barcelona will be best._

_Your owl needs therapy, but she seems to be content cuddling up to my chest. She’s a clingy one._

_Sorry about the letters. Very difficult assignment in Italy._

_HP_

_PS – Why Bob?_

He managed to get rid of Bob quickly enough. Once she had a job and knew she was going home it was like Harry had never existed. He received another letter mid-afternoon, and groaned when it made his insides twist up.

_Glad to hear Noble Harry is back in town, although clearly you do need those sexual favours. Merlin, Potter, go get yourself a shag._

_I am letting you know in advance (would you look at that?) that I may be late in meeting up with you on the 29th. How about you leave the box under a Kandinsky glamour at the address attached, and if I’m not there you can wander up and down Las Ramblas and I’ll find you as soon as I get there? It should only be within a half-hour. I have to go through two Apparition points to get up from Gibraltar._

_Late or not, though, I will be there. I promise._

_Draco Malfoy_

_PS – My son was insistent._

\--

Harry couldn’t quite bring himself to believe Malfoy’s promise, but he felt bad enough to write back:

_Malfoy,_

_I never did thank you for the wand holster. It’s really nice._

_Harry_

\--

The case in Barcelona was both solved too soon and not soon enough, and had Harry in knots by the time he made it down to the fisherman’s neighbourhood near the harbour and found the address Malfoy had given him.

As soon as Harry propped the little blue and white box on the sill, the glamour shimmering in the heat unusual for this time of year, even so close to the equator, he heard someone call his name. There were people everywhere, but few were speaking English. He thought he was going mad for a moment, when he heard it again.

“Potter!”

Malfoy was striding down the street with a cigarette in one hand and the other in his pocket. He wore a grey Muggle suit and a deep blue shirt and his hair was even more unruly than it had been on Platform 9 ¾. He looked good.

And he was almost smiling. He threw his cigarette in the gutter and extended his hand.

Harry took it, caught off-guard. He’d wanted… well, he’d entertained this in his head but now that it was here in front of him he didn’t know what to—

“Funny meeting you face-to-face, this time around.”

“Yeah, funny,” Harry said absently, looking up somewhat dimwittedly at Malfoy.

Malfoy quirked an eyebrow and muttered, “I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or idiotic. Fucking mystery.”

“Sorry,” Harry grumbled. “I was just surprised to see you.”

“I said I’d be late, not that I wasn’t coming.”

“Yeah, well your track record indicates otherwise.”

Malfoy ignored him. “Did you bring it?”

“The box-thing? Yeah, it’s hiding under the glamour like you asked.”

“So you do know how to make the Kandinsky glamour!”

Harry gestured toward the window with his own smirk. He could talk about spells. This was professional. None of that romantic shit he’d fantasised about for the last several days.

Malfoy couldn’t see the object, it was clear, so he reached out with wand-calloused hands and felt the object out.

“Where are these things from?”

“The one you dropped off in Munich was from Morocco; this one’s from the Zaubereiviertel in Munich—you know, the wizarding district—hence the Bavarian colours.” Malfoy smiled slightly at what Harry now saw were tiny people in traditional dress, framing the blue and white sides in long, dancing lines. He pocketed the box quickly after making sure it was undamaged. “You here for long?”

“I leave tomorrow.”

“Do you have plans, or can we buy each other sangria?” Malfoy asked. “I know where you can get the best paella in town.”

Harry could feel his cheeks heating. “Are you going to pay for my dinner?”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, but he seemed to be in good humour when he said, “Potter, you’ve made a hobby out of doggedly following me your whole damn life. The least I can do is reward you for making it useful, this time.”

Harry’s face was hot now, and not because of the weather. “I suppose that’s all right, then.”

Malfoy gestured toward the sea with a sweep of his arm, and they walked down the wide, tree-lined street. “I do mean ‘doggedly,’ by the way. My secretary says you’ve been following me all over Europe like – I think these were her exact words – a lovesick crup.”

“You wish,” Harry said, reflexively.

Malfoy peered at him. “I could get used to the idea.”

“How does she know we’ve been talking?”

“You’ve been getting the out of office replies, correct?”

Harry didn’t think he could have gone any redder. “She reads your mail?”

“When it’s not sent to me personally, yes.”

“You have a personal address? How would one contact you impersonally? I wrote your full name down when I sent that first letter.”

“No, you wrote my surname and my first name. Save for your meeting with Bob, you’ve been writing to my office for the last two months.”

“So I have to write Draco Lucius Malfoy?”

“If you want to write to me personally, yes.” Malfoy’s eyebrow was doing that thing again, where it disappeared under his mussed fringe.

Malfoy led them down to a roundabout, with a towering column in the middle and beeping cars rushing this way and that, and they crossed the street to the pier. The breeze was more brisk down this way, and salty fresh. Harry was glad for the warm weather.

“How have you been, then, Potter? Other than trekking across the world on your international espionage. And stalking me.”

“Uhm,” Harry began.

“Oh really?” muttered Malfoy.

“I’m doing well,” he finished, although it came out more as a question. They came to another road and crossed it to find a long line of restaurants, bathed in pink light as the day drew closer to night, sun hiding behind the low-hanging clouds and sky striped with dark lampposts.

“You seem very sure of yourself.”

Harry snorted. “I’m recently divorced, the press writes false exposés on me every week, and the Ministry doesn’t want me to do my job anymore so they keep sending me to the Continent to deal with less paperwork.”

“That’s more like it.” Malfoy smiled widely. “I’m used to you complaining about your stardom. We can move on to vague pleasantries when we’re better friends.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes—Harry contemplating the words ‘better friends’ for a large portion of it—until Malfoy found the place he was looking for and dragged Harry under yellow and white awnings to a table near a Muggle space heater. He spoke in perfect Spanish to the waiter, and had a pitcher of sangria on the table before Harry had taken off his jacket.

“So, how are you? Since you asked me so nicely.”

“I can’t find people who will respond to my job listings. No one wants to work with a Malfoy, and therefore I can’t support my business. I can’t see my son because of my bitch ex-wife’s full custody. And I keep losing my belongings all over the place and Harry Potter has to pick up after me.”

“Well,” said Harry.

Malfoy shrugged, and with a quirked eyebrow, accurately guessed what Harry would like for dinner.

“We’ll share some plates, as is custom, and then you can have your chicken paella and I’ll have my seafood and we’ll get pleasantly drunk and walk on the beach. I think this is a good plan. Nod if you agree, but it doesn’t matter because that’s what’s going to happen even if you don’t like it.”

Harry nodded dumbly.

Malfoy hailed the waiter and ordered before adding, “I’m going to be honest, Potter. Don’t let your head explode, but your letters have been the most entertaining thing to happen to me in months.”

Harry ate some cured ham off of a little plate when it arrived moments later. “Is that a compliment?”

Malfoy just smirked, holding the glass of deep red liquid in his long fingers. The slice of orange floating on top touched his lips when he tilted the glass back. Harry watched him swallow.

The bugger really was attractive. Harry wondered when that had happened and if he’d been noticing for longer than he’d been noticing he was noticing. The thought got all tied up in his brain.

“And now that I’ve got you here and we’re both in the same place,” Malfoy continued as if Harry had not just spent a couple moments feeling like a firstie with a crush. “I can make snide remarks and you can make slightly less clever responses and it will be even better. Cheers, Potter.”

Harry clinked his own glass against Malfoy’s.

Later, they walked along the beach buzzing with the effects of the sangria and arguing over politics and the Auror administration.

“That reminds me,” Malfoy said, stopping under the light of a lamppost on the boardwalk.

“What reminds you?”

Malfoy gave Harry a look that clearly said, “I want to write the word IDIOT all over your face.” He had more in common with Hermione than Harry would ever tell him to his face.

“Granger. And her weasel. I have this morbid curiosity to know how they are, like poking a dead jellyfish with a stick.”

Harry frowned. “Hermione’s been ill, recently. Early onset wizard cancer or something. Her cells are dying. She’s light-headed all the time. It’s… kind of turned everything upside down.”

Malfoy stopped in his tracks. “You don’t mean Wasting Disease, do you?”

“Yeah, that’s what Ron called it when I talked to him last.”

Malfoy shook his head. “That’s not possible.”

“Uh, Malfoy—”

“It’s impossible, Potter. She’s Muggleborn, so she’s the first in her family to have magic. It’s not possible.”

“Don’t argue to me. I don’t know the first thing about all that.”

“Apparently no one does. The Wasting Disease is inherited, coming mostly from pure-blood families. It’s because of inbreeding. I would know. It’s not possible, Harry.”

Harry paused. “Did you just call me Harry?”

Malfoy sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “You have the shortest attention span.”

Harry blushed, feeling like he’d just have to get comfortable in this affection-induced stupidity. “Sorry.”

“You should be. I’m talking about your best friend, here.”

“You can’t argue with the symptoms, though.”

Malfoy looked over the ocean, brow furrowed. “Incompetent doctors,” he muttered.

Harry watched Malfoy, feeling himself falling deeper just by looking at the man. He shook himself and looked out at the sea, where a barge was shining yellow in the distance.

Malfoy leaned on the lamppost, and Harry looked back at him watching Harry with an assessing gaze.

“I did call you Harry, didn’t I?” he asked quietly.

Harry’s stomach lurched. He nodded.

“I need more sangria. If you keep looking like that I’m going to have to kiss you.”

“Wha—what?”

“You just look so pathetic, it’s precious.”

Harry looked at the ground, not knowing what to say. He felt pathetic, but he certainly didn’t feel precious.

“You’re lonely,” Malfoy murmured.

Harry was promptly manhandled against the lamppost, and found Malfoy’s lips against his within a moment, the smell of sangria and sea air close between them. Malfoy had a hand on Harry’s neck, thumb brushing against his jaw as he mouthed at Harry’s lips.

Harry whimpered when the other hand found its way to his waist, and he was kissing back, hands slithering into fine, white-blond strands and holding on for dear life.

“How about those sexual favours you needed?” Malfoy asked after he’d spent proper time sucking on Harry’s neck and pressing his body up so close Harry felt surrounded by him, lightheaded with arousal.

“What?”

“I’m propositioning you, Harry. Do keep up.”

Harry blinked his eyes open and found Malfoy looking down at him through the fog of his glasses, lips swollen and dark in the fading light. He looked debauched, so there was no knowing how messed up Harry looked. Malfoy’s hands had been in his hair for a good portion of however long they’d spent against the lamppost. He probably had bruises from his collarbone to his jaw and his button-down was un-tucked in the back from where Malfoy had pressed his warms hands against Harry’s spine.

“Oh. Yes, please.”

“Shall we, then?” Malfoy pulled Harry by the waist, and in a blink they were in an unfamiliar room, dark but lit by the moon, and Malfoy was kissing Harry again, backing him toward what Harry assumed would be a bed. It was confirmed when he landed on soft cotton, the breath leaving his lungs in a big huff as Malfoy crawled over him, unbuttoning his shirt and shedding it carelessly before making work of Harry’s clothes.

Harry couldn’t quite fathom what was happening.

“You’re quiet, for once,” Malfoy murmured, deft fingers sliding Harry’s belt from around his waist as Harry’s heart hammered in his chest. He pulled Harry’s shirt over his head and tilted his head appreciatively. “Fucking hipbones,” he muttered.

“Fuck,” Harry said succinctly, finally, when Draco pulled his trousers off and covered him with his body.

“Your mouth, too,” Malfoy continued, before licking at his lips and trailing his hands up Harry’s ribs and distracting him entirely.

It was too much and not enough all at once, and Harry was a lot less quiet by the time Malfoy had got all their clothes out of the way, and then Harry was in Malfoy’s lap and Malfoy was grabbing their slick cocks and palming his ass. He planted open-mouthed kisses on Harry’s chest, a finger inching closer, teasing at the cleft of Harry’s ass.

“D-Draco,” Harry stuttered out.

The man below him chuckled breathlessly, whispered, “Come here,” up at Harry, and then Harry was wrapping his arms around Draco Malfoy and letting go.

\--

In the morning Harry woke suddenly, feeling winded when he remembered where he was.

Draco—and it was Draco now, after he had told Harry time and again to say his name while he fucked into Harry, watching Harry’s face, collecting his weak whispers, his moans, his gasps—was spooned up behind him, morning wood pressed against Harry’s ass and nose pressed against Harry’s neck.

Harry debated, under-confident, whether he should wake Draco in the way he really wanted, and decided, fuck it, he was a Gryffindor.

Draco stirred quickly against the roll of Harry’s hips, untangling their fingers before tracing below Harry’s navel, teasing at the trail of hair leading downward before wrapping around Harry’s growing cock.

“Morning,” Draco said into Harry’s ear, making him shiver.

Harry was still shivering, afterglow in full swing and Draco’s broken whispers into Harry’s skin as he came echoing in Harry’s mind, when Draco muttered, “You should probably go. I have to get back to Gibraltar by nine.”

Harry took a deep breath, surprise probably evident in every tensed muscle, pondering whether he should pretend he hadn’t heard, before leaning up on his elbows and shakily pushing himself to the edge of the bed. His clothes were strewn all over the room, and one sock was flopped precariously over the windowsill, peeking out onto the street below where vendors shouted in Spanish and seagulls fought over crumbs stuck into the cobblestones.

“So…” Harry began, plucking his sock from its perch and finding the rest of his clothes one by one, not bothering to put them on.

He sat on the bed again, glancing over his shoulder at Draco, whose cock was still pink and full from stretching Harry’s ass as he lay there, shameless, watching Harry from the rumpled bed linens. Beyond him on the end table there was a little box, not unlike the other two Harry had collected for him. It was decorated with tiny shining tiles in swirling patterns, like some of the bizarre architecture in the city. Its corners were rounded, and the sides of each face were sunken in. But, on the front where the swirls culminated, he could make out the initials: S.H. Harry wondered how Draco could be so peculiar and cold all at once.

He turned back to his clothes, and dragged his boxers up over his hips in one motion. “When do you next see your son?” he asked, needing to fill the silence with something.

Draco stirred, pulling the sheet up over himself. “When this job is over.”

Trousers. “Do you get to see him on the regular?” Socks.

“Not even if my job took me to Scotland,” he said too flippantly. “As I said over dinner, my ex makes it difficult.”

Undershirt. “Ginny and I have joint custody, but she runs the show.”

“Typical,” snorted Draco.

Button-down. “I have my kids for New Year’s, thankfully.”

“If Astoria could help it, I wouldn’t be able to see my son ever again.”

Harry’s heart clenched. He looked back at Draco, who was now staring up at the ceiling looking grim. In that moment, he wanted the courage to climb back under the sheets and hold the man who seemed so far away, fuck if Draco swore and told him to leave a hundred times over.

“Do you miss him?” asked Harry as he folded his jacket over his arm. He shrunk the cloth down and shoved it in his pocket.

“Why are you asking?” Draco’s gaze sharpened on Harry.

Harry shrugged, and laced up his shoes. He had to get back on the job, too.

He regretted leaving only when he was out in the street, vendors calling out to him and the smells of cooking wafting out from the restaurants along the road. The window of their room was still open, and Draco probably still in bed.

“Damn it.”

Harry Apparated back to the room, resolved to kiss the frown out of Draco’s muscle memory thick in his veins, but the place was empty. The only evidence that there’d been inhabitants was the unmade bed.

“Damn it,” Harry said again. What did he do to deserve this kind of want, ugly and curling in his stomach, and so intently focused on a man he’d once hated? He looked dazedly around the room until he spotted the little box, lying on top of Harry’s pillow.

Fucking coward. Making him go through this again.

Harry plucked the odd box from the pillow and put it in his pocket.

Job.

He had a job.

Harry Disapparated.

\--

“All right, then, Hermione?” Harry asked a day later, having caught the man he was trailing the previous afternoon, his anger driving him to mad efficiency. He’d Apparated home immediately and burrowed under the covers, determined to sleep away the last 24 hours. He’d forgone work the next day, instead deciding to visit his best friend. Talking with her always helped.

He was a bit nervous as Hermione slowly sat up from her sofa where she’d been resting with a book on her stomach. He remembered what Draco had said about her illness, and it frustrated him to see her looking weaker.

“I’m fine, Harry. Come sit.”

Harry sat in the spot she made for him on the soft cushions, before pulling her legs back over his lap, so she could stay reclined and relaxed. Her small hand found his and squeezed it as the other brushed a curl behind her ear.

“I love the flowers, Harry.” She nodded to the mantelpiece where they sat in a pink vase. If Harry strained his ears he could still hear the faint hum of the song they’d sang when she first found her gift. The pink and yellow petals were still bright and happy, seeming to breathe after every verse as the leaves swayed.

“Did you know they were from me?”

“I figured it out. You were clever to get someone else to take the gnome, but you also knew that song by heart. You were singing along with the flowers when you helped me dry the dishes the other night.”

Harry sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “Did you like getting those photos?”

“God, yes. Whoever your colleague is, they are very funny.”

“You’d like her. Her name’s Kyla. She was on assignment with me in Frankfurt.”

“Good.”

They sat for a short moment, until Hermione broke the silence with news about Al.

“He sent me a lovely get well card two days ago, saying he loved me very much and hoped I would be better soon.”

“Good boy.”

“He also said to make sure you were okay because none of your children have heard from you since the beginning of school.”

Guilt flooded him in punishing waves. “I’ve been… preoccupied in the past month.”

Silence.

“Hermione,” Harry began quietly, interrupting her piercing scrutiny of his person – the one she had to have inherited from Dumbledore – and pulled the little, gaudy box from his trouser pocket and held it out to her. “Can you tell me what this is?”

Hermione blinked and then sat up, a smile plucking at the corner of her mouth. “Harry, this is a chime box.”

“A chime box,” Harry parroted.

“Yes, it’s… it’s like a little tourist souvenir that you could get anywhere. If you can figure out how to get it open, out comes a tiny wind chime that plays a tune, and you keep both the box and the chime to remember where you’ve been.”

Harry nodded, not understanding. Why would Draco collect mass-produced souvenirs wherever he went?

“Except,” Hermione paused, noting that she would be educating Harry yet again. “This one has been custom-made. It’s from Spain, correct?” She took her glass of water from the coffee table and sipped at it, turning the box over in her palm and rubbing a thumb over the uneven mosaic in yellow and white and green.

“Yeah. Barcelona. I was there just yesterday on an investigation with the local Aurors.”

“Why would this have anything to do with an Auror investigation?”

“It doesn’t,” Harry said. He watched Hermione take another drink, her brow furrowed in innocent study. He flip-flopped for a moment, and then – “It’s Draco’s.”

Hermione coughed wetly, eyes watering as she handed her glass to Harry and covered her mouth.

“Wrong pipe,” she apologised with a rasp. “So, Draco Malfoy gave you this chime box.” She examined it more closely before trading the box for her glass.

Harry scratched the back of his neck, sinking into the cushions. “Like I said, I’ve been preoccupied this month.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows and folded her legs under her. “That’s interesting.” She leaned forward as if to say, “Please, tell me more.”

Harry laughed weakly. “It is. He didn’t give it to me. At least, it’s not meant for me to keep.”

“That explains the initials.”

“He left it on my pillow.”

Hermione nodded, frown even more pronounced. “I can’t decide if I’m surprised or just confused about this development.”

“I think I’m both,” Harry admitted. “I haven’t been seeing him, if that’s what you’re wondering. Not really. I just. I saw him. Once. In Barcelona. But, well.” Harry bit his lip. “Fuck,” he said.

“So, these chime boxes.” Hermione pointed at the box that was hidden in Harry’s white-knuckled hand.

“He accidentally dropped one on Platform 9 ¾ in September. It was from Morocco – had Arabic runes on it and everything. Really ornate. So, I thought I’d write him a letter.”

“And?”

“I got an out of office reply.”

Hermione snorted.

“The owl said he was in Munich, and I had an mission in Frankfurt so I took it with me to Germany.”

“Did you meet up with him?”

“No, but he wrote me with an address, so I dropped it off in Munich.”

Hermione played with her necklace, fingering the little stone at the end of the chain.

“He left another one at Gringotts the other day, and I tried to give it to him while I was in Italy. I went all the way to Turin, ‘cause he wanted to retrieve the charm box in person. I waited for an hour before getting a fucking note from him that he couldn’t make it. Statement of the obvious. And then the day was made even better when I ran into Sal in the middle of a downpour.”

“Oh, Harry.”

Harry slumped further into the couch.

“I know it’s eleven in the morning, but how about some MacFusty’s?” Hermione surprised him by asking. She rose and went to the liquor cabinet, reaching for two tumblers and wrenching the rickety door open.

“Draco gave me a fucking bottle of Hebridean Black the other day.”

“He’s giving you gifts, too? Harry are you sure you’re not seeing him?”

“I’m really not. I hadn’t spoken to him in person until two days ago.”

Hermione poured herself a generous portion with a whisper, “Don’t tell my doctor.”

Harry accepted his glass with enthusiasm, raising it slightly before drinking it in one go.

“To my health,” Hermione deadpanned, and downed hers as well.

Hours later, they had moved on to scarfing down Chinese take-away, but not moved past the topic of Harry’s failure of a love life.

“I think he clearly left the box for you.”

“It’s not for me, Hermione. We’ve already been over this.”

She gestured at him with her chopsticks. “I mean,” she amended, “he left it for you to find and take back to him. So you’d feel compelled to find him again.”

“What a fucking girl,” Harry grumbled, poking at a questionable looking mushroom in his lo mein.

Hermione threw a fortune cookie at him. “Don’t use it as an insult, you ass! If you were both women, you’d have talked about it ages ago and would be happily shagging as opposed to angstily shagging.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “If you say so.”

“Harry, I think he regretted sending you on your way. He left the box because he hoped you’d come back. And you did, so you need to show him that.”

“I’ve been making all the fucking effort, here.”

“Sometimes you have to. But look at it from Draco’s perspective. He’s sending you gifts, looking forward to your letters, and he’s used to making all the effort with his wife, who ended up not being worth the bother.”

Harry groaned. “It’s no use, Hermione. I’m clearly cursed.”

Hermione swallowed and put down her carton slowly. “You know what?” she asked. “I don’t know why you’re still here talking to an invalid. Go. Go to Malfoy Manor and sort this out yourself.” She snatched his take-away carton from his hands and started cleaning up.

“Hey, I wasn’t done with that!”

“You are now. I’m fucking tired and you’re going to Apparate out of here and go to Wiltshire and ask him what his intentions are and then you’ll probably shag him.”

Harry stood, halfway between a smile and nervousness, feeling a fool.

“Shoo!” Hermione shouted.

Within moments, Harry was running, laughing as Hermione threw pillows at the door.

\--

Malfoy Manor looked the same as it had the night he’d visited all those years ago, except it now bathed in sunlight. Harry strode up the path to the grand house freely now, as the gates opened for whomever politely asked, and knocked loudly on the door.

His bravado quailed as soon as he’d done it, but his wish to take back the last several seconds was not granted.

Instead, within moments he was staring at an open door.

A tiny house-elf was holding it open, looking up with her bulbous eyes over her crooked nose.

“Can Dolly help mister sir?”

“Uhm, hello, Dolly. Is Draco home?”

“Dolly, who’s at the door—oh.”

Harry swallowed, looking at Draco Malfoy, who was wearing a pullover, ratty jeans and woolly socks. He looked so unlike Malfoy that Harry had to blink a couple times to make sure he was seeing right. He had a mug in his hand that looked like a toddler had painted it and in the other hand he held a black book.

Harry took a breath. “Why did you leave this for me?” He drew the chime box out of his robes and held it out.

Draco bit his lip as he looked at the box in Harry’s palm. “Dolly, let our guest in and prepare another tea for Mister Potter? We’ll be in the sitting room.”

“Yes, Master Draco.”

The sitting room was right off the main hallway, so they were seated fairly quickly. Draco sprawled at the end of the sofa while Harry took the chair by the already crackling fire.

“Why did you leave it for me?”

“I think the answer is obvious,” Draco began, looking at his mug and not at Harry. “But, I’ll explain, since you seem to need help with thinking even at the best of times.”

Harry bit back a retort.

“I left it in the room—ah—hoping that you’d come back. I was relying on your sense of duty for you to return the box if you did find yourself going back.”

“Why?”

“Harry, don’t—”

“Dolly has Mister Potter’s tea, Master Draco!”

Draco started, looking over and seeing the little tea set floating above the house-elf’s head, her finger pointed in the air.

“Thanks, Dolly.”

“Mister Potter is most welcome,” she said, and then disappeared with a loud ‘CRACK!’

Draco gathered himself again. “When we weren’t talking—after the war and before all this—I felt like… it felt like nothing. And then you reappear acting all valiant and snotty and generally as obnoxious as you used to be, and finding the time to deliver my chime boxes to me, and it was invigorating. I liked having it back in my life. I’m being completely honest when I say your letters were the best thing that had happened to me in a while, whether you believe me or not.”

Harry stared at Draco for a moment before taking a big gulp of tea, burning his tongue.

“So,” Draco said with finality. “That’s why I left it.”

“Because you like talking to me.”

Draco rolled his eyes.

“But you sent me away.”

“Yes, well… I was having a moment of… epiphany.”

“You mean idiocy.”

Draco chuckled. “What I told you just now, I hadn’t…”

Harry gripped his tea tightly.

“I hadn’t realised it until yesterday morning. Realised that I was getting in deep with you.”

“You had your cock in my ass. Twice. And you didn’t realise you were getting in deep with me?”

“Such a way with language. So high-brow.”

“Fuck you, Draco. Enough with the sarcasm.”

“All right, all right.”

“You go and say something important and then ruin it by being a complete ass.”

Harry could tell another remark was on Draco’s tongue, but he was holding back.

“Okay. Another question. Why the hell are you collecting chime boxes?”

Draco smiled, a little sadly, and pointed behind Harry, to the corner of the room.

Harry turned, and saw a bonsai tree, old and gnarled and majestic. On its branches hung what looked like hundreds of tiny wind chimes, each a different length and colour and metal. At the base of the trunk there was a carving: _S.H.M. 2005_

“S.H.M,” Harry read aloud. Then it dawned on him. “Those are your son’s initials.”

“Yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Scorpius. He’s in your son Albus’ house, you know. They’re in the same dormitory.”

Harry got up to examine the tree, could feel Draco follow him to the corner. Harry touched a chime, figuring Draco would have told him already if it was forbidden, and was pleased with the results. It tinkled out a soft, simple version of ‘Greensleeves’ before slowing to a stop. Another played ‘La Vie En Rose’. And another the ‘Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy.’

“These are fantastic.”

“I still send Scorpius one whenever I come home. He has a couple at school now, but the rest of the boxes are on a shelf in his room. We keep the chimes down here.”

“How d’you get the boxes open?”

“I have them designed so only Scorpius’ wand can open them.”

“That’s… quite lovely, really.

“…I’m sorry about everything, Harry.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder at Draco, who looked remarkably contrite staring at the floor with a blush on his high cheekbones.

“You look so pathetic. It’s precious,” mocked Harry.

“You little fuck,” Draco grumbled, and then pulled Harry in for a kiss. It was chaste, and damn if Harry didn’t want more, but he felt content just being wrapped in Draco’s arms for a moment. Wasn’t that an odd thought?

When he opened his eyes, they landed on the book Draco had been carrying when Harry showed up on his doorstep. It rested on the coffee table with a ribbon marking a place Draco had wanted to remember. The cover read, _The Ancient Dark Arts_.

“What are you doing with that book?” Harry asked calmly.

Draco shook his head and pushed Harry gently away. There was disappointment on his face, likely from the tone of Harry’s voice.

“I’m researching old curses that bring about disease,” he said pointedly.

“Oh,” Harry replied. “What—”

“Granger,” Draco supplied.

“You… you think she’s been cursed?”

“Harry, I already explained—”

“Okay, okay. Then how?”

Draco folded his arms. “I was going to ask her, seeing as no one else has bothered to check that particular option.”

“Are you doing this for me?”

“Of course not!”

“Okay. Good.”

Draco shook his head. “I would slap you if I didn’t want to kiss you stupid.”

Harry’s heart was picking up speed. What if her illness wasn’t natural? What if it was a curse? “Let’s do that later,” Harry said absently, before turning his gaze to Draco. “Hermione’s home this afternoon.”

Draco snapped to attention, then. “Lead the way.”

\--

The Granger-Weasley home looked the same as Harry had left it not two hours before, with its green picket fence and blue door.

“Quaint,” Draco muttered as they approached the gate, although Harry noticed he was smiling at the brown stone exterior and the thatched roof as he traced a finger along the fence.

“I love their place,” Harry said, and then knocked on the door.

The door opened on a creak.

Harry’s mouth went dry. “I didn’t leave this open,” he insisted. “I heard her lock it when she kicked me out earlier. I remember.”

Draco pushed past him and crept into the house, little front hall squash yellow, a bright contrast to Harry’s mood that was darkening every moment. Who would do this to Hermione? He’d kill them.

There was sobbing coming from the bedroom, and before Harry knew it he was yelling and tripping down the hall, Draco on his heels.

He shouldered the door open, only to find Ron holding a crumpled Hermione to his chest, surrounded by a pile of textbooks. His face was ruddy and he had his wand out, still muttering, “ _Rennervate!_ ” under his breath.

“Ron! Ron, what happened?”

Ron looked blearily up at them. “She won’t wake up! She always wakes up!”

Draco crouched down and reached to check her pulse.

“What are you doing here?”

Draco replied calmly to Ron’s snarl, reaching again when Ron pulled Hermione closer. “I’m here to save your wife. Now let me check her pulse.”

“He’s a Curse-Breaker, Ron. He’s only trying to help.”

Ron blinked between Harry and Draco before laying her down on the floor.

“She’s still alive,” Draco murmured.

Harry looked at Hermione, watched Ron brush the hair out of her eyes.

“Harry, will you go through your diagnostic spells? I have something that I think will work if she’s not too far under.”

Harry unsheathed his wand from its holster around his waist and cast eighteen different spells in quick succession, trying to keep calm even though he’d memorised the spells more than fifteen years ago.

Several came up negative and positive, but Harry knew as soon as the last spell enveloped her in a purple light that she was conscious, but trapped.

“I’ll work but only for a moment,” Draco said before intoning, “ _Deffro_.”

“S’that Welsh? Why’s he speaking Welsh?” Ron asked quietly, but Hermione’s eyes were blinking open and the question fell by the wayside. “Hermione!” Ron cried.

Draco squeezed Hermione’s arm and asked, “What happened?”

Her throat clicked twice before she rasped, “I tried—to take it—off.”

She closed her eyes.

“Hermione,” Ron whimpered, as Harry assessed the room. The books were all open in a semicircle, like Hermione had gathered them to do a bit of “light reading.”

Draco was muttering more spells under his breath as Harry peered at the pages.

_Ancient Curses_ and _Moste Potente Spelles_ and ‘Pestillence and Famine – Calling on the Horsemen to satisfy your bloodlust.’ The little black book at the end looked remarkably familiar. Harry stepped over Hermione’s legs to get a closer look. _The Ancient Dark Arts_ looked up at him.

“She figured it out,” Harry said. “Hermione figured it out.”

Another article caught his eye, entitled ‘Inheriting Hexes: The dangers of estate sales.’ The section entitled ‘Treacherous Trinkets’ was circled ten times over in red ink.

_“’I tried to take it off,’”_ Hermione had said.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Harry yelled.

“What?” Draco asked.

“It’s her necklace.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “Let’s get her to St. Mungo’s.”

\--

“I came home early today. We were going to watch a documentary on meerkats,” Ron said miserably into his hands. “Merlin’s balls – never thought I’d actually say that with regret!”

Harry squeezed his shoulder before turning to Draco, who was reading Hermione’s annotated article on inherited and cursed objects as they loitered in the Waiting Room. The big tome that it was in was called, _Trust No One: Avoiding Looming Dangers by Gunnvor Unhardy_

“So, how do we do this?”

“Carefully,” Draco replied.

A woman in lime green robes approached them with a clipboard.

“Mister Weasley?”

Ron stood quickly, folding his arms, looking more vulnerable than he’d looked since the war.

“Your wife is stable, but won’t wake. She’s conscious but comatose. The healers have determined that it is spell-based.”

Ron nodded. “We can see her now, right?”

The woman nodded. “Room 402.”

Draco approached Hermione like a frightened animal once they were in her room. She looked like she was just sleeping, hands resting on top of the hospital blanket.

“Weasley, have you ever touched the necklace your wife is wearing?”

Ron nodded. “We bought it at an estate sale on our anniversary. I put it on her.”

Draco nodded, sitting carefully on her bedside.

“I wonder if it’s sentient. Those curses are even rarer.”

“Is that why you’re being so careful?” Harry asked, at the same time as Ron said, “It’s not a Horcrux, is it?”

Draco lifted the necklace out from under Hermione’s hospital gown, and the cracked moonstone caught the light as Draco examined it between two fingers.

“Just what I thought,” Draco muttered. “You got the necklace from a pure-blood family, I presume.”

“Yeah, in Devonshire. Does that matter?”

“Not where, but whom it comes from.”

“What do you think happened?  Draco?”

“There was a remedy to the Wasting Disease. If you were willing to do something similar to splitting your soul, you could trap the illness in an object at the cost of someone else’s health. You would trap the illness in the object, and gift it to whomever you chose.”

“Shit,” Harry said emphatically.

“The girl who sold it to us didn’t seem to know how long it had been in the family. I don’t think she sold it to us with that intention. D’you think…” Ron shifted uncomfortably. “Is there way to get it out?”

“Unbind the illness from the object.”

“Do it, then!”

“Ron,” said Harry, putting a hand on his arm.

“Do either of you have something I transfer the curse into? Jewellery is best but anything will do.”

“What about the book you were reading?” Ron supplied.

Draco looked stunned. “That would be rather ironic. I like it.”

They looked over at the book on the end table. Draco nodded.

“Weasley, can you talk to your wife while Harry makes a full-body Protego for her? I’m going to put the book on her stomach when the shield is in place.”

Harry raised his wand and concentrated, making sure to place the shield on the skin, and not over the clothes. He had no intention of protecting the necklace from harm.

Ron sat on Hermione’s other side, careful not to touch but murmuring reassurances and promises while Draco settled the book over the cream-coloured blanket.

“No one touch her, all right?” Draco demanded, and then raised his wand and closed his eyes.

“You do know what you’re doing, right?” Ron asked, narrowing his eyes at Draco.

“I’ve never done this particular spell before,” Draco answered, to which Ron bristled. “But I’m good at what I do, and if I don’t do it, Granger will die without being able to say goodbye to you.”

Ron took in a shaky breath, looking at Hermione, already lost without her.

“You’ll have to trust me,” said Draco.

“Harry, would you let Malfoy do this to you?”

Harry swallowed. “Yeah, I’d let him.”

Draco glanced at Harry, probably sharing the same thought that Harry’d let him do several things to him, but then Draco was back to business, shoulders squared and wand raised confidently.

“Okay, do it. Hermione has a bill to pass two weeks from now,” Ron said, determination creeping into his voice. He whipped his wand from his sleeve and locked the door to the hospital room with a powerful spell.

“That’s the spirit,” Harry said, and watched.

There was utter silence for a moment, in which Draco closed his eyes again, and then the room filled with bright orange light. The necklace began to tremble, moonstone wobbling, and then a dark matter seemed to explode from it, ghostly runes and incantations twisting out and around it as Draco whipped his wand through the air. It wasn’t sentient, no, but there was a tangible unwillingness to leave. Harry felt it himself.

“Push it away,” Draco said quietly, and Harry briefly wondered if that had been in Harry’s mind.

Ron was squeezing his eyes shut, hands raised and physically pushing through the darkening air, so Harry tried it too.

Then, Draco began to chant. It sounded old, rhythmic, and it was angering the binding spell that was slowly being pried from the little necklace.

It seemed like hours as Harry watched Draco in his element, manipulating the dark magic to his whim. He did as instructed when instructed, but mostly watched.

Until, just as suddenly as orange had filled the room, green light exploded from within the dark air surrounding the moonstone, making Draco’s hair fly back as if he were facing a strong wind.  The runes began to twist toward the book, feeling out the embossed cover and examining the texture of the pages before sinking in. The black air followed, and the room began to dim to the ordinary, dreary greyness of the sky outside.

Draco took a big, shuddering breath and then sat on the floor.

Harry went to him, but Draco shooed him away and demanded he levitate the book to the corner, put the strongest Protego he had around it, and then destroy it from within.

Harry did so with raised eyebrows, and then helped Draco up.

“I’m going to kiss you stupid, now,” Harry said, and gave Draco barely a moment to comply before rising up on his toes and claiming his damned perfect mouth. Draco submitted on an exhaled breath, leaning into Harry and wrapping an arm around his waist.

Harry only remembered that there were other people in the room when a raspy, womanly voice muttered, “That’s really not what I expected to open my eyes to.”

Harry broke away, eyes still on Draco’s spit-slick lips, before looking over at Hermione, who was now struggling weakly to sit up in bed while her husband gaped in horrified astonishment.

“Close your mouth, Ronald, you look like a fish.”

Ron snapped his gaze to his wife, and then grabbed for her. He bounced off almost comically into his spot on the bed, until Harry gave a rushed apology and cancelled the Protego. Ron was not even remotely embarrassed—he just grabbed his wife in a hug and held on for dear life.

“How are you feeling?” Draco asked, squeezing Harry’s waist once more before letting go.

“I feel like I’ve been run over by a lorry,” she said over Ron’s shoulder, “but I don’t feel like I’m wasting away, so that’s an improvement.”

“You’re funnier than I remembered.”

“I don’t know, Malfoy, I thought I was pretty funny when I slapped you in third year.”

Draco snorted. “I’m sure I deserved it.”

Hermione quirked an eyebrow. “I’m sure you did.”

“May I examine your necklace?”

She nodded, prying herself from her husband’s grip but keeping their fingers laced.

Harry watched Draco lean over Hermione, wondering how the hell this year, when Draco Malfoy was involved, hadturned into another dangerous adventure like the ones he’d had at Hogwarts.

“Look Harry, it’s unbroken.”

Harry leaned over, resting a hand on Draco’s shoulder, and saw the little moonstone, good as new, resting in the palm of Hermione’s hand.

\--

Harry received a letter the next day at work, after being chewed out by his boss for not calling in sick and filling out the paperwork for Barcelona for the rest of the day.

_Potter,_

_Are you ever going to give me the charm box? You know, the one I left on your pillow?_

_Draco Malfoy_

Harry shook his head, flipping the note over and writing,

_Dunno. What do I get in return?_

The response made his stomach clench.

_Might just strip you naked, deposit you on my king-sized bed and fuck you with my tongue until you beg for my cock instead._

Harry looked around briefly, hoping no one happened to be watching him.

_Don’t tease._

He imagined Draco was smirking at this point.

_Wouldn’t dream of it. I received a very real threat from your friend Granger that she’d gut me if I broke your heart._

Harry bit his lip.

_Are we at the point where I could break your heart, Harry?_

Harry wrote back after a long, long moment of indecision.

_Yeah._

Harry leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling that looked like whitewashed cork, and took a deep breath. He looked back at the parchment.

_Then I need to catch up._

_Come to mine tonight and we can get started._

_I promise I’ll be there._

_Draco_

This time, Harry believed him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was so excited to take this prompt (mainly because of the wind chimes, for some odd reason)! The film Amélie vaguely inspired this story, but cultural references outside of the UK generally surround Germany and Spain, not France. In other news, enjoy! Thanks to my cheer!readers and the mods! I am so happy to be participating in hd_smoochfest again!


End file.
